


Breakfast in Kabul

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV), Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2016)
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Cultural homophobia, Espionage, Fluff, Gay Sex, Hot sexy times, Intoxication, John Watson is Iain MacKelpie, M/M, One Night Stand, Photography, Romance, Secret Identity, Sherlock is a Spy, Some Plot, War reporting, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the early 2000's, the conflict in Afghanistan had become a magnet for journalists, hangers-on, and all manner of opportunists pouring in from the west. Though Sherlock was dismayed to find himself in the midst of the sodding mess, one solitary feature looked to redeem his trip to Kabul. That one thing was a force of nature named John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [One Night in Karachi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393510) by [unknownsister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister). 



> We did a segment on the Three Patch Podcast cooing over Martin Freeman's recent movie "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot," melting over Martin's acting choices and his stripey underpants, and begging other fans to write some cross-over fics. So often in life though, if you want something done, you really need to do it yourself! ;)
> 
> When my fellow podcaster, unknownsister, posted her fabulous WTF/Sherlock fic, "One Night in Karachi," (go read it!) I was utterly inspired to write my own. This story is a fusion though, John Watson IS the character of Iain MacKelpie here. I took parts I loved from both characters, stuck them in a blender and came up with this Iain/John mash up. You don't need to see WTF to get this, and I won't be following any of the plot of the movie, so no real spoilers here. 
> 
> HOPE YOU ENJOY! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [cover artwork](http://alexxphoenix42.tumblr.com/post/148928727698)

**September, 2004**

The desert wind greeted Sherlock with a hot, dry blast to the face. It blew sand over him, tangling his hair, leaving a lingering taste of something gritty and melancholy over his tongue. He blinked, and scraped his fringe from his eyes, reminding himself he’d need a haircut fairly soon. Damn Afghanistan. Sherlock shifted the camera bag higher over his shoulder, hefted his small suitcase, and moved toward the gaggle of taxi drivers bickering over the travelers spilling from Kabul’s tiny excuse for an airport.

Sherlock quickly picked out the most honest-looking one of the lot. He stepped up to ask him how much for a lift to the Mustafa Hotel in perfectly accented Dari. The man’s eyes grew round, flicking over Sherlock’s pale English skin, and bespoke dark suit, calculating, but he listed an acceptable price readily enough. Sherlock agreed, and the man reached out to take Sherlock’s case, carrying it as he led the way to his cab.

The taxi bounced its way over the rutted road, passing a number of low squat buildings wedged side by side. They stopped in traffic, and Sherlock glanced idly out the window. An old man with one leg sat begging in front of some shops, a scruffy dog at his side. Sherlock looked closer and revised his first assessment. The man wasn’t that elderly, most likely no more than a weather-beaten thirty five. A shopkeeper appeared from a door to chase the beggar off, and the man rose stiffly, using a cane and his dog to hop along. Sherlock turned his face from the window. Damn this country. Damn this war, and damn Mycroft for sending him here.

 

#@!

 

Sherlock checked into his hotel, showing the passport with his cover name to the front desk. The man was polite in a oily way, soon providing him with a key, and a boy to help carry his luggage up the stairs. With many apologies, the man explained that the elevator wasn’t working that day. Sherlock thanked him and allowed the boy to carry his suitcase while he kept the camera bag as they tackled the narrow staircase. The boy was a cheerful thing, nearly fluent in English. He gave his name as Farid as he chattered through the climb.

Farid led Sherlock to his room, proudly showing off the amenities such as they were. It held a twin bed, a chest of drawers, and a small desk and chair as its only furniture, but it had its own ensuite toilet, a fan by the window, and a lovely patterned Persian rug spread over the floor. It would have to do. Sherlock reached into his pocket and brought out five quid in change that he passed to the boy.

“Oh, thank you, sir!”

“Farid,” Sherlock said, dropping his camera bag on the desk, and leaning back on it to better regard the boy. “I wonder, you seem like a well-connected business man. I’m certain you must hear about everything that goes on around here.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy eyed him a bit warily.

“I was thinking. If perhaps you might keep an ear out, let me know if anyone comes asking about me at the front desk. Or anything else strange or unusual that might happen.  Do you think you can do that?”

“Oh, yes, I can do that.” Farid nodded.

“I would be happy to pay you for your services.”

“OH, like a spy.” The boy smiled widely.

Sherlock winced. “No, not like a spy, not exactly. I don’t want you getting into any trouble, just if you see anything, let me know.”

“Okey dokey, sir. I will”

“You’re a good boy, Farid.” Sherlock flipped him another pound coin, and ushered him back out the door.

 

#@!

 

The reception in the British embassy was filled with the usual boring government cogs, a handful of sham wannabes, and just enough dangerous elements to make it interesting. Sherlock filtered his way through the gathering, accepting a glass of wine from a tray to pass from group to group, smiling, shaking hands and generally playing the charming gadfly. He had half of his mission fulfilled in a matter of minutes, determining quickly who was blackmailing who, who was sleeping with whom, and who was ready to do something stupid for the sake of assorted ignoble causes. Sherlock sighed, and tipped his glass back to finish it off.

“Well, hello, there. You look like a new fish in our small pond.”

Sherlock blinked, and lowered his glass to find himself presented with a short man with a blond, grey fringe swept back from his not unpleasant face. A scattering of roguish scruff too short to be called an actual beard dusted his cheeks and throat.

“Yeah, I know I haven’t seen you before. I’d remember you.” The man licked his lips before raising his glass to take a swallow.

“That’s right. I’m new. Very observant,” Sherlock clipped. This man was nobody, and he’d already dropped his “charming idiot” persona.

“Ah, another Brit. Welcome to the sand trap, though like as not yer aff yer heid, ye great bampot.”  The short man cocked his head to the side, lifting his eyebrows expectantly.

“You’re Scottish,” Sherlock drawled.

“That’s right.” The man winked, extending a hand. “I cannae hide it. Independent war photographer, and man-to-know, John Watson.”

Sherlock took his hand in his own, the man’s tomfoolery melting his edges despite his best efforts to remain unwelcoming. “William Sigerson.”

“Shall I call ye, Billy, then?”

“William,” Sherlock repeated, dropping their handshake.

“Well, Wiiilliam.” John stretched the name out, a hint of a smile playing over his lips. “What brings you to our little corner of the world?”

“I’m with the foreign affairs office for the London Times. They wanted a few interviews with some important officials in Afghanistan, what’s the word on the locals, blah, blah.” Sherlock waved a hand in the air. “I do photography as well as copy so they offered me the job.”

“Bullshit.” John took another swallow of his drink. “I know Nigel and Raoul. They work for the Times.  Why would any rag waste money sending in a new bloke when they’ve two here cooling their heels in Kabul already?”

“Ah, you’ve caught me out,” Sherlock said. He leaned in to whisper conspiratorially by John’s ear. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m really an adjunct operative for MI6 sent on a mission for top-secret intel gathering.”

John burst into a charming arpeggio of giggles. “Ach, you’re not just a looker, you’re FUNNY too.” He waggled a finger at Sherlock.

Sherlock felt his cheeks redden slightly. “Alright.” Sherlock pretended to sigh. “I’m a freelance journalist. I was hoping I could score a story here that might help me land a full-time position with a big paper.”

“Ah, now you’re talking.” John nodded, pressing his lips together. “Look, it’s a rough business to break into. There’s a party I know tonight, all the journos will be there. Come with me, I’ll introduce you around, get you situated in the hell hole.”

Sherlock was trapped. He could hardly maintain his cover if he turned down this generous offer. Still, all information was helpful, and it wouldn’t hurt to have an in with the local expats. “Alright, thank you, John.” He let a real smile cross his face. “I appreciate it.”

“Ach no, don’t go all mushy on me now, laddie,” John said, shaking his head. “Don’t want to ruin that poncy, arsehole thing you’ve going on.” The man grinned widely as he lifted a hand to Sherlock’s back, steering him toward the exit. “Dinnae worry, the lasses will lap it up.”

 

#@!

 

Sherlock blinked awake to bright sunlight filtering in through a thin rattan blind. He registered a dull ache coursing through his entire body, and the sound of someone brushing their teeth quite vigorously from somewhere nearby. He pushed up to one elbow as John Watson appeared in the doorway to the ensuite dressed in a dark kimono, foamy toothbrush in hand.

“Well, good morning, gorgeous. Sleep well? I know I did.” John winked, and retreated back into the loo, presumably to finish his morning ablutions.

Sherlock groaned, sinking back to the pillows. He wanted to crawl under the covers and not come out until the room either ceased its horrid spinning, or his head stopped doing an imitation of a bass drum in an orchestra pit. Just how much HAD he drunk last night? Sherlock made himself sit back up and push the blind aside to look out. A quick glance confirmed he was in a residential building not too far from his hotel. The blankets slipped down from his waist showing that he was, as he’d suspected, quite naked underneath them. Sherlock pulled the covers close to his chest as he scanned the small room. Where in hell were his bloody clothes? Christ. He hadn’t done something this stupid since uni.

John reappeared smiling holding a glass of water and, _thank all this is holy_ , a bottle of paracetamol. “Poor laddie. You’re a sight this morning.” He passed Sherlock the water, and taking a seat on the edge of the bed, leaned against Sherlock’s hip to shake out two tablets from the bottle.

“Looks like you’re not one for holding your liquor, eh?” John bent over to drop the pills into Sherlock’s palm, and just the nearness of him, the touch of his hand, and the smell of his breath overlaid with the tang of the mint was enough to bring a sense memory of the night before crashing over him.

Too much alcohol, and John, always John touching him, squeezing his leg under the table, keeping a hand at his back as he introduced him to a parade of faces. Later, John stripped bare, pressed against his naked flesh, hot, so hot, stubble scraping deliciously as that mouth worked over him, competent fingers sliding into dark sensitive places, and cocks pumping side by side as he came with John’s teeth in his shoulder. Sherlock shivered. God. He had to get out of here.

Sherlock was no fool though. He took the pills and finished the water first.

“Where are my clothes?” he croaked, setting the glass to the nightstand. “I need to go.”

 “Not such a good morning then.” John’s eyes flicked over his face. He almost smiled, but kept his lips firm instead. “You left them in the loo. Hang on.” John disappeared, returning shortly with a bundle that he dropped into Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock sent him a pointed glare, but the man seemed determined to gawk, leaning against the wall to fix him with those lovely, dark blue eyes.

“A bit of privacy, please?” Sherlock demanded, fishing his boxers out of the tangle.

“Well, there’s nothing I haven’t see already,” the man chortled, watching as Sherlock contorted under the covers to work his pants on.  “Come on, luv, why don’t you have a shower first? Nothing like a bit o’ hot water to set things right again.” He tipped his head toward the loo.

“Fine.” Sherlock shoved the blankets away, and grabbing the rest of his things, stalked as imperiously as he could in green silk boxers past the man into the toilet. He really hadn’t been expecting to undress before anyone the night before.

“OOooh, I do like those fancy pants.” John called as Sherlock shut the door firmly behind him.

Sherlock let the hot spray run over him, nearly groaning at how good it felt. Once he had soaped up, and used John’s cheap 2-in-1 shampoo, he could move without feeling as if his head were about to topple off. Putting his suit on, rumpled as it now was, slid his armor back into place, and he was feeling much more in control when he stepped back into the main room.

“Look, John I need to tell you, this was an aberration. I never do this. I don’t want you to think . . .”

“No, no, I know. It’s the Kabubble.” John swiveled from the open laptop at his desk to regard him.

“Ka . . . what?” Sherlock frowned, moving to snag up his shoes left tumbled by the front door.

“The Kabubble, my wee fishie.” John leaned in, propping his chin on a fist over one knee.  “It’s the tiny little pond we foreigners swim in here in the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan. It gets a bit mad. You do things you wouldn’t normally do at home.” John sat back to cross his arms over his chest, eyes shining. “Don’t worry, luv, you were brilliant, and I still respect you in the morning.”

Sherlock sat heavily on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. “Well .  . . you were pretty brilliant yourself,” he admitted, bending down as he tied his laces so he didn’t have to meet John’s eyes.

“Ah, good to hear I haven’t lost my touch. Only been pulling birds since I got here. Nice to have a bloke in my bed again.”

“You’re bisexual,” Sherlock said, kicking himself for saying something so redundant as he sat back up.

“Yup.” John swept his eyes over Sherlock again, a gaze that was pure heat. “Christ, but you’re a lovely thing.”

“John . . . I . . .”

“Let me buy you breakfast.” John tilted his head charmingly to the side, and the wave of affection that swept over Sherlock in response was almost alarming.

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed, already thinking this wasn’t a good idea.

 

#@!

 

John led him to an outdoor café that featured a full English breakfast minus the bacon. Sherlock nearly wept at how good the tea was. He finished a whole cup, pouring another before even looking at his plate of food. 

“So, what’s your story, then?” John cut into his fried egg and looked up.

“Why must I have a story?” Sherlock raised both eyebrows.

“Oh, don’t go all stroppy. Why are ye here in the capital of dirt storms? Ye must have a reason.”

“I told you I’m an independent reporter, and I was hoping to find a big story . . .”

“Yeah, yeah.” John interrupted waving Sherlock’s words away. “That’s what you tell charming blokes at cocktail parties. You could have gone to any number of countries around the world to get a good story. Why this one?”

“Something’s happening in this one.”

“Something’s happening everywhere you go.”

“Well, I might ask the same of you.” Sherlock bristled. “YOU’RE here working as a photographer.” Sherlock cocked his head, and regarded John more fully. “You didn’t start out as a journalist though, did you? No, you began at the University of Edinburgh, studying to be a doctor.

You didn’t finish med school though, dropped out with not much left. Must have been an emergency, a close relative grew ill? Mother I’d warrant. Once she died, there was someone else who needed your care, a sibling I’d say. You never made it back to finish school, and instead took up with something that been a hobby earlier, photography.

You managed to parlay it into a career, but your need to feel wanted, and yes, your addictive love of danger led you to the latest war zone, and here we are.” Sherlock held up a hand with a flourish. He waited, bracing for John’s reply.

“How do you know all that?” John’s mouth had fallen open.

“I observed you, and had a look around your room. It was all there.”  Sherlock shrugged. Here it came, the lashing out, the rude names . . .

“Well, that’s just amazing.” John sat back in his chair. “I suppose you really could work for MI6.”

“Please.” Sherlock snorted, ducking his head, forking up some beans. “I have better things to do with my time.”

John laughed with his whole body, shaking his head. “Alright, if you won’t tell me your story, tell me your favourite band then.”

“Mendelssohn,” Sherlock said after a moment’s thought.

“Isn’t that .  . .” John’s brow furrowed.

“Yes, a composer,” Sherlock said. “I don’t really like popular music.”

“Christ on a crutch, you are a piece of work, aren’t you?” John propped his cheek up on an open palm.

Sherlock shrugged again, certain that he’d managed to turn John’s interest in him away with that. He could pull just about anyone if had a mind to it. It used to be a game in his younger years. It was _keeping_ anyone around past one night that was the trick.

John continued to watch him with fond eyes. “Ah, well, I like ‘em, odd,” he declared finally returning his attention to his plate. “And I definitely like you, William Sigerson.”

Sherlock almost startled at the strange name, but managed to keep his face smooth. Damn. He’d forgotten himself for a moment. He was on a mission for Mycroft, for godsake. He wasn’t meant to be going on dates, picking up strange men, and having breakfast with them, regardless of how dashing such men might be.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock dropped his gaze to his tea cup.

“Ah, well, if you’re getting me something for my birthday which is July seventh, by the way, just for the record, I’m fond of Motown.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it, he laughed.

 

#@!

 

Sherlock didn’t clap eyes on John again for days. He’d been busy for the better part of a week interviewing a number of staff with the British embassy, mugging and joshing, doing a puff piece on “Brits in service abroad” for the folks back home. Most of it had been stuff and nonsense, but he had managed to extract helpful information from one of the secretaries about her boss, the liaison with the military forces. Sherlock was almost certain he’d nailed the embezzlement scheme to Mycroft’s satisfaction. All he needed was a few pictures of a meeting between Mr. Big Brit, and Mr. Afghan drug lord cum contractor and the deed would be done.

At night, after hours of interviewing and being “on” for scores of people, Sherlock thought all that he wanted was to lie down alone in his dark hotel room, and unravel. He’d eat the kabob or sandwich he’d picked up, take a long shower under water that never quite seemed to get hot, flop on his bed in nothing but his pants, and expect to rest. Instead, his thoughts would amp up, clawing at him, and rest would prove utterly elusive.

It would only take half an hour of listening to the street sounds outside, and he’d be fully dressed and headed downstairs to the hotel lounge. A number of other Western journalists and hangers-on gathered each night for some sort of debauchery and they were only too eager to include Sherlock in the fun. While alcohol was strictly forbidden in the Muslim country, somehow the foreigners always knew where an illegal river of booze was flowing. Sherlock would tag along, nurse a glass of something over the night, and smile and nod at whatever brothel, or party, or underground bar they’d managed to scare up until it was late enough to head home, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Farid stopped him one morning as he was leaving the hotel for another round of cheerful boy-Friday press interviews.

“Sir, sir, Mr. Sigerson, I need to tell you.” They boy jogged down the pavement to catch up to him.

“Yes, Farid?” Sherlock stopped, bending down to talk with the boy.

“Sir, some men they came to ask about you at the front desk. My uncle he tells them that you go out to work during the day, and go out to party just like the other white men at night.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, they say, _okay, okay_ , and go away.”

Sherlock had the boy describe the men asking after him, locals by the sound of it, and silently gave thanks that he’d followed along on the nightly junkets with the other journos. He realized belatedly it would have looked suspicious if he hadn’t.

“Good job, Farid.” Sherlock smiled and slipped the boy a few folded Afghani notes. “Keep up the good work, hmm?”

“Yes, sir, thank you!” The boy ducked his head and scampered off.

That night, Sherlock’s hotel pals dragged him along to a party in the lounge of a guest house for Westerners called aptly, “the Fun House.” Loud music advertised the nature of the place before they’d even stepped inside. Giving the bubbling hookah pipes a wide berth, Sherlock accepted the glass of something alcoholic pushed into his hand. He raised the drink to his mouth, and turned to spy John Watson across the crowded room. The breath caught in his throat.

It was the first time he’d seen John in days, and there the man was, snugged against an American journalist, the woman practically in his lap as John licked at her ear. He couldn’t blame John, not exactly. They hadn’t declared anything exclusive between them. Still, it was disappointing. Sherlock drained his glass quickly, and went back for another, already making plans to slip out as soon as possible. Sherlock downed the cheap whiskey, found a spot to leave his dirty glass amidst the mismatched furniture, and turned to go.

“William, hey, WILLIAM!” someone called over the pounding dance music, chasing him into the hall.

Sherlock turned to see John hot on heels. “Hey hold up, a minute, you. Where are you rushing off to, my wee fishie?”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock affected a casual air. “I didn’t see you.”

John looked simply edible. His pale hair flipped back fetchingly from his face, while his dark button up shirt hung open at the neck, several beaded necklaces swinging across his chest.

“Christ, I went out of town for one day for a photo shoot, and when I came back I didn’t see hide nor hair of you. I thought you’d left Kabul and not told me.”

“No, still here, obviously.” Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “Been busy.”

“Bugger this music,” John said as it cranked up even louder behind them. “Hey, are you hungry?” he near shouted.  “Let’s get out of here. You owe me a dinner.”

“I owe you?” Sherlock looked mock offended at the man.

“Yeah, come on, I know a great Indian place, curry to die for.”

Sherlock allowed John to lead him from the chaos of the guest house, and out into the streets where they caught a cab.

“You never contacted me.” John looked at him in the dark of the taxi as they swayed through the streets of Kabul. “I thought I might have done something wrong.”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock bit at his lower lip. “I was busy. I’m sorry, I got caught up in things.”

John huffed a laugh. “You’ll have to tell me about this journalistic break-through of yours. I traveled five hours over shit roads to take pictures of a girls’ school that was burned down last spring. Cutting edge stuff, let me tell you.”

“Not without merit though. A school destroyed sounds like worthy news to get out into the world.”

“Yeah, that’s me John Watson, humanitarian.” John shook his head. “Sadly, those stories pay crap, and I’ll be skint in no time if that keeps up.”

“Well, I was interviewing secretaries at the British consulate, getting a feel good, slice-of-life view of Brits in Afghanistan,” Sherlock offered.

“Christ, why?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Sherlock smiled as John snickered at him.

“Ye wee pillock.” John giggled.

“There’s one fellow that I need to talk to that I can’t get in to see though.” Sherlock thought about Mr. Big Brit.

“Ach, yer too polite,” John said. “If you really want to talk to someone you leave the workplace behind, and you stalk their house. There’s yer story.”

“Hmm, you might be right.” Sherlock nodded.

 

#@!

 

 The Indian restaurant was a lovely little spot called “Namaste” and true to John’s word, it served a very good curry. John got the prawns while Sherlock chose chicken tikka. They spent the meal sharing naan, and stealing bites off each other's plates.

“I missed you,” John admitted over the kheer pudding they brought out for afters.

“Ah, so much that you had to crawl all over loose American women in my absence?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh ho, so you did see me at the Fun House.” John chortled, delighted to have caught Sherlock in a lie.

“Perhaps I might have seen you, out of the corner of my eye,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly.

“Dinna ye worry yer wee head over some stray lass,” John drawled, waving a hand about. “It’s just abit of fun, just the Kabubble.”

“I thought that’s what we were. Just a bit of fun in the bubble.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I’d actually like it if we were a bit more than that,” John said, bracing his arms against the table. “Do you think you could at least give me your mobile number, William?”

“I could do that,” Sherlock said, making no move to do anything other than scoop up a bite of rice pudding, pulling the spoon slowly from his lips.

“Tease,” John breathed, watching the movement of his mouth. “Come home with me.”

“Is that such a good idea?” Sherlock asked.

“Best idea I’ve had all day, I think.”

“It’s illegal here. Two men together.” Sherlock dropped his voice and his eyes coyly.

“Fuck. So’s drinking yourself blind, stupid drunk, and nearly every Westerner in Kabul manages that any night of the week.” John leaned closer, his eyes dark and wanting. “Come home with me, William.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Alright,” he said as if there’d ever been any doubt to his answer.

#@!


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continues to temp Sherlock away from his duties, a temptation of the very best kind, though he'll be damned if he'll admit it.

John fell on Sherlock as soon as they’d shut the door to John’s room. Pinning him to the wall, John surged up, attacking Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him wildly as he mashed their mouths together. He pulled back slightly to suck at Sherlock's lower lip, returning to invade with a tongue that swept past every one of his puny defenses. Sherlock whimpered as his knees buckled. John peeled him off the wall, steering him toward the bed all the while keeping up a patter that burned a path from Sherlock’s ear straight to his rising cock.

“Ach, ye gorgeous man, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, fuck you into the mattress, gonna make you come so hard you see God, gonna fuck you so good.”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped as John pushed him onto the bed, climbing over him. “Yes, please.”

They pulled their clothes off, eager to press bare flesh together as soon as possible. John licked up Sherlock’s throat to smear kisses along his jaw.

“Your neck, Christ Jesus, how is this neck even possible?” John panted against his skin.

He gnawed his way down Sherlock’s sternomastoid muscle leaving him in such an inarticulate puddle, Sherlock wondered how John could still be stringing words together. Sherlock gripped him by the shoulders, hanging on, until he gathered the wherewithal to stoke down, down that lovely golden back to find heaping handful’s of John’s magnificent arse under each palm. He squeezed, and John gasped, jerking against him.

“Oh, you want to play dirty, do ye, my wee laddie? I’ll show you dirty.” John wriggled down Sherlock’s body, sucking across his collarbones, scraping lightly with his teeth, licking down until his tongue passed over one of his nipples. Sherlock shivered.

“What have we here?” John chuckled softly. He returned, laving over the tight bud as Sherlock squirmed. John teased with his tongue, swirling it around before latching on to suck, hard.

“Hnnng,” Sherlock garbled something unintelligible as his hips bucked off the bed.

“Yeah, I thought so.” Sherlock could hear the smile in the Scot’s voice. “Soooo sensitive my wee bairn. Just relax, let me take care o’ ye.”

John’s burr seemed to increase the farther south he traveled along Sherlock’s body. After a near eternity of torment where John dragged the flat of his tongue back and forth across each of his nipples, he finally moved down Sherlock’s belly, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses, and scraping stubble burn, closer and closer to the pounding heat of Sherlock’s rock hard erection.  He kissed down into the crease of Sherlock’s groin, making his way back up until he could nuzzle at his balls, gently taking the skin into his mouth.

“Please . . .” Sherlock couldn’t even form his need, but he tried to communicate anyway. “Please, John . . .”

“Please what, my wee laddie?” John’s fingers danced up the inside of his legs, teasing, tormenting, stroking everywhere but Sherlock’s obviously straining cock about to hit him in the eye as it bobbed.

“God, John . . . I can’t . . .”

John’s fist finally closed over his weeping erection and stroked. “Is that what you need, then?”

“Oh, God.” Sherlock shook with the intensity of the feeling.

“Oh, you’re a gorgeous man, aren’t you? Is this big cock for me? All of it?”

Sherlock bit his lip, trying not to cry out as John took the tip of his erection into his mouth and slid down. He might have whited out a bit for a while, near delirious, as John’s mouth worked over the length of him, his lips sliding down to meet his hand pumping up from the base. Enough brain power trickled in to Sherlock’s consciousness that he was able to reach out and push at John before he exploded.

“Wait, stop, don’t want to come yet.”

John eased off, releasing Sherlock from his mouth with a last reluctant lick.  “Oh, you’re a bonny one for sure.”

Sherlock reared up taking John’s mouth in a firm kiss, pushing the shorter man to roll over onto his back. “Used to women in your bed, are you?” he growled at John’s ear, gratified at the groan it tore from John’s throat.

Sherlock pressed John into the bed, systematically taking him apart with soft kisses across his face, moving to mouth at the hollow of his jaw, nipping at his earlobes, and dipping his tongue into the shell of his ear over and over. “You’re a wild one, aren’t you, John Watson?” he whispered before moving down to catalog every twitch and cry John made as he worked his tongue, teeth, and fingertips over the man.

“AAaaah, _Jesus._ ” John moaned a veritable symphony beneath him.

“Oh, I think you were wrong about who has the big cock in this bed,” Sherlock purred as he licked over John’s very healthy erection. He wasn’t that much longer than Sherlock, but he certainly was thicker in girth. Sherlock pressed his nose to John’s public hair, inhaling the lovely musk of him, the most concentrated place of John smell, before closing his lips over his length. He swallowed John down neatly until the tip of his cock nudged the back of his throat. Sherlock relaxed, letting his gag reflex settle, a talent that he had worked to perfect, and moved, sliding John in and out of his mouth at a luxuriously slow pace.

“Jesuschristholymarymotherofgod . . .” John seemed to be reliving every church school class in his youth, though Sherlock doubted the priests would have had this scenario in mind for their young pupils.

When John reached the point of eschewing words for simple keening, Sherlock slurped off with a satisfying pop, and crawled up the length of John to whisper dark and low.

“Come fuck me, you lovely man. I want to feel you inside me.”

John swallowed several times before coming back to himself. “Yes.” He nodded vigorously. “Christ, I think you’ve half-melted my brains.”

“Good, let me have the other half.” Sherlock smiled wickedly, stretching out beside him. “You have some lube?”

“God, yes, yes.” John scrambled to find supplies in the bedside table, bringing out a handful of condoms, and a tube holding a viscous liquid. He dropped most of the condoms, scattering them over the floor, but managed to keep hold of one. His hands shook as he tried to open the foil packet until Sherlock took it gently from him, ripping off the corner with his teeth to spit the strip onto the floor.

“OH, God, yes.” John’s eyes seemed to have dilated to completely black.

“Come here.” Sherlock crooked his finger and John scooted closer to let him unroll the latex over his really rather impressively flushed erection.

“Open me?” Sherlock asked finding the tube from where John had dropped it on the bed, and holding it out to him.

“Yeah, alright.” John took it, and popped the cap open to coat his fingers with the slick. “How long, erm, how long has it been since you had someone here.” John reached out to run his fingers over Sherlock’s entrance, stroking gently before pushing a tip in.

“Well, I seem to recall you had your fingers up my arse last week,” Sherlock managed.

“Ah, well, yes,” John agreed, increasing the pressure by adding another finger. “Oh, it’s a gorgeous arse to be sure.” He continued his ministrations, sliding his fingers in and out until Sherlock was throwing his head back, and writhing into the sheets.

“Now, _please_!"

John obliged by slicking himself up with another dollop of lubricant. He pushed Sherlock’s knees up over his shoulders, moved in closer, and slid home, burying himself deeply inside until his balls rested against Sherlock's bottom. They groaned in unison, waiting for Sherlock to adjust before John began moving. Finally, he shifted, pulling out only to slide back in, his hips snapping in a gorgeous rhythm that had them both panting, rocking into each other.

“OH, GOD, SWEET JESUS,” John crowed as Sherlock kept up a wordless series of groans.

When John began to stutter in his rhythm, Sherlock reached up and stroked his own cock. “Oh, John, come in me, please.”

John obliged by jerking with a bellow, emptying himself inside Sherlock. With a few passes of his hand along his straining cock, Sherlock soon joined, painting his fist and belly with hot pulses as bliss overtook him.

“God.” John collapsed over him, and they lay simply breathing together, waiting until the world righted itself, and they could see straight again.

“Well, hello there.” John smiled, reaching out to smooth back the curls stuck to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Hello, John.” He could feel a stupid grin spreading over his own face in answer. God, it had been too long. Or rather it had NEVER been like that before. John Watson was something else, a force of nature, not to be contained.

“Oh, William, sweet, William.”

Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer. “Call me Sherlock”

“What?” John’s eyes hadn’t quite focused completely yet. “Call you what?”

“Sherlock,” he insisted. “It’s my middle name, but I prefer it.”

“Alright, Sherlock,” John obligingly tried out the unfamiliar name on his tongue. “So then why do you . . .”

“It doesn’t matter right now. Just call me Sherlock, _please._ ”

“Okay.” John scooted closer so that he could kiss Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock.” He dropped a kiss to his forehead.

“Sherlock.” Two sweet pecks over each closed eyelid.

“Sherlock” Tender kisses pressed to each cheekbone.

“Sherlock,” John whispered as his lips closed over Sherlock’s and they kissed again, deep and drugging.

At some point, John finally untangled himself, removing and binning the condom, and returning with a cloth to wipe them off.

“Good-night, Sherlock,” John mumbled, wrapping himself around Sherlock to sleep.

“Good-night, John,” Sherlock sighed, allowing himself to relax and drift off, completely at peace.

 

#@!

 

Sherlock blinked awake to sunlight streaming through John’s blinds, and John’s deep blue eyes already open and steady, watching him from over a propped-up fist.

__

“Well, good morning, love of my life.” John smiled like a cat loose in the cream.

“John,” Sherlock croaked, still finding his voice. 

“Yup, still here.” The man leaned in to drop a kiss to Sherlock’s nose. “You fucking gorgeous, amazing, best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You can’t keep saying things like that,” Sherlock said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He arched his back, stretching over the mattress to unkink muscles gone tight.

“Oooh,” John crooned. “If you’re going to keep looking like hot sex on a half shell, I’ll no be responsible for what I say, laddie.”  He reached over to trail a finger down Sherlock’s throat, and just that simple touch felt like a spark catching tinder alight.

“How are you even real?” Sherlock marveled at the man beside him, his tousled grey and blonde hair stuck up at crazy angles, his stubbled half-beard glowing golden where the morning light touched it. He looked a mess, and Sherlock felt like he could swallow him whole.

“I might say the same of you, you sexy beastie.” John growled deep in his throat, and Sherlock embarrassed himself with a high-pitched giggle.

“Oh, now, you’re just a wee, bonny thing, aren’t you?” John drawled. “Just a tiny, small slip of a creature.  I could just fold you up and put you in my pocket, carry you with me so I could have you always.” John rolled closer against him to drop a kiss to Sherlock’s smiling mouth, and Sherlock was struck by how delicious John tasted, morning breath not even an issue. When John’s erection brushed near Sherlock’s answering wood, hot even through the tangled sheet between them, John sucked in a breath.

“Ach, but here’s something that’s no sae wee, hmmm?” John reached down to cup Sherlock through the fabric, and Sherlock pressed up into his hand, amazed at how good this simple touch felt. Sherlock rumbled a groan, torn from the center of his chest.

John’s eyes darkened in response, and he lost no time in sorting the bedding between him to clamber over Sherlock, pressing warm skin to skin, as he settled down. “Oh, you feel so fucking good,” John stuttered, eyes closed as he rocked them gently together. 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agreed, moving his hips up to meet him.

The world faded away as Sherlock’s senses coalesced down to nothing but this man against him and the movement of their hips and cocks sliding together, the pleasure radiating out in waves to obliterate every thought in Sherlock’s head save _John_. At some point, John relocated the tube of lubricant, and slicked them both up, and they locked hands together, pushing inside their slippery joined fists. Sherlock tumbled apart with a cry, feeling John follow soon after.

It was hours, eternities later when Sherlock chanced opening his eyes again.

John was watching him from an impossibly close vantage point, collapsed over his chest, eyes gone meltingly soft. “Well, I’d say that definitely earns you breakfast, my bonny man. Come on let’s get washed and I’ll pay you back for shagging my brains out.”

“Fine, but I’ll pick the place.” Sherlock grinned, feeling absolutely high on John, simply flying. A little voice at the back of his mind niggled at him, but he squelched it down, in favour of snogging John thoroughly before they staggered off to wash up in the loo.

 

#@!

 

Sherlock led John through a nearby marketplace, past women in dark headscarves and bright stacks of produce, as the liquid sounds of Dari and Pashto washed over them. Sherlock wanted desperately to take John’s hand in his own as they walked, and had to stuff his hands into his pockets to resist the urge. John looked up at him, quirking a little smile, and Sherlock knew he felt the same way. Sherlock sucked in a breath of air perfumed with wood smoke and a muddle of spices, and felt like he’d swallowed some of the morning sun, so warmly did his chest glow.

John had brought his camera, and busied himself snapping photos of the market, and of Sherlock, even asking a shopkeeper to take a picture of the two of them together, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders like proper mates. He’d taken some pictures back in his room earlier too, and Sherlock tamped down the idea that some of them were fairly incriminating. Hell, all of those were incriminating, Sherlock looking utterly shagged-out, his curls dripping from the shower, stretched out over John’s rumpled sheets in nothing but a towel.

Sherlock ushered John inside a small café, already filled with men in turbans and round brimless hats talking and laughing around the small tables. Luckily, they managed to grab a place in the back as a group was just leaving.

John glanced about. “Hmm, we’re going local, eh? We’re the only foreigners here.”

“Relax, John, they’ll still serve us.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Henri, one of the French journalists at my hotel told me about this place.”

“Oh, Henri, is it?” John leaned his elbows onto the table to fix Sherlock with a hard eye.

“John, he’s fifty-five and married with children.” Sherlock snorted.

“Ah, well, that’s alright then.” John reached under the table to risk a quick squeeze to Sherlock’s leg.

When a waiter approached their table, Sherlock rattled off an order for the two of them in perfect Dari. It was only when he caught John’s surprised expression that he realized he might have tipped his hand a bit.

“I didn’t even know you spoke Dari,” John sputtered. “You sound like a fucking Afghan.”

“I took a course before I came.” Sherlock shrugged, pulling his mobile out to tap at the buttons.

“Yeah, but . . .” When John’s phone rang, he fished it out of his back pocket. “Hello?”

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said, the delay of his call making his voice echo a second behind in John’s ear.

“Alright, ya mad bastard.” John grinned.

“You have my number now.” Sherlock smiled equally broadly, snapping his phone closed and slipping it away.

“How did you have _my_ number?” John lifted his eyebrows.

“I peeked at your phone while you were using the loo.”

“I’ve no secrets.” John laughed, putting away his own mobile.

The waiter bustled in delivering their cups of thick, black coffee, and a plate piled high with enough pastries to instigate a diabetic coma.

“Mmm, God, this is delicious,” John moaned sinking his back teeth into a cream roll. Some of the filling oozed out to the side of his mouth as he chewed, eyes closed, obviously in a sugar ecstasy.

“Here, you’ve just a bit . . .” Sherlock leaned forward to wipe John’s mouth clean with the edge of a napkin.

John watched him with eyes gone liquid as he sat back in his seat. “So . . . _Sherlock . . ."_ John sucked a bit of cream off a finger. "Is that a name I can call you everywhere, or is that just for in bed?”

Sherlock froze. _Shit._ Had he really given John his name? He thought back to the passion-soaked night before and realized yes. Yes, he had.

“Erm, I suppose you should keep calling me William, it’s the name I’ve given everyone. It would be confusing otherwise.” Sherlock shrugged lamely.

“Ah, so just in bed then.” John winked.

Sherlock swallowed. “John, I didn’t mean . . .”

“Hamish,” John spouted out.

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“My middle name is Hamish. I hate it though. Always feel like I’ve done something wrong when I hear it, like my mum is calling me in for a whipping. Still, Sherlock and Hamish – has a nice ring to it, yeah?”

“You’re a menace.” Sherlock smiled softly at John.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” The side of John's mouth tipped. “So Mr. Sigerson, are you free today? I’ve nothing much on, I thought we might spend the day together, see the sights, such as they are?”

 “I’m sorry, John, I’ve some errands to do.” Sherlock had surveillance duty planned. Technically, he should already have already started it, watching the movements of Mr. Big Brit, but John had thoroughly distracted him from it.

“Ah, well, errands then.” John’s face fell, and Sherlock felt like a heel.

“Well, that and an interview I have already set up for this afternoon.”

“Yes, the feel-good public servant exposé.” John nodded. “Very important.”

“Just so,” Sherlock replied. “Plus I’ve got to go home and shave.” He lifted his hand to rub over the suggestion of dark hair prickling at his jaw. “You don’t seem to own a razor.”

“Ah, fuck off, ye poncy Englishman. I’ve a razor.” John kicked him lightly under the table. “I just don’t use it every day. Why bother, it’s Afghanistan.”

“Indeed. Look, I’ll call you when I’m free. Perhaps we could meet for a late dinner?”

“Ah well, let me check my schedule.” John pretended to open an invisible notebook, flipping through its pages, to run his finger down the nonexistent lines. “Well, as I suspected. Totally free. At your service, sir.” He shut his imaginary agenda with a flourish.

“Good.” Sherlock blew out a breath. “It’s a date then.”

John’s grin could have lit up the room on a cloudy day. “Good.”

John slipped out his camera and sneaked a shot of Sherlock biting into something coated in powdered sugar. "Ach, now that one's for my bedside table," he crooned.

Sherlock, mouth full, flashed him two fingers, and John laughed, delighted.

 

#@!

 

Sherlock left his hotel dressed casually, a loose shirt and khakis, scuffed trainers, and a ball cap pulled low over dark sunglasses as his simple disguise. Despite his teasing with John, he’d left the scruff on his jaw to better tamp down the paleness of his face. He’d only gone a few blocks though before a car with tinted windows slid to the kerb beside him.

“Good morning, Mr. Sigerson.” An Afghan man in a western suit rolled down the window to address him in Pashto. “The day is fine though I expect it might be a cold winter this year. May I offer you a ride?”

 _Damn._ It was Mycroft’s code phrase. Sherlock couldn’t refuse. “Yes, thank you.”  He sighed broadly as he opened the back door to climb inside. The two men in the front seat spoke no further, and he’d expected nothing less. Sherlock turned his eyes to the window watching the scenery slide by as he enjoyed riding in a vehicle with proper shocks in place.

The car took him out of town to a warehouse, driving inside a tall garage door. Once it had sealed behind him, the man who had addressed him got out to open his car door. “If you’ll come this way, sir?”

“Thank you.” Sherlock followed the man to a back office where an open laptop waited on the desk.

“Just press any key,” the man said before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock whipped off his cap and tossed it on the desk before dropping heavily to the padded chair provided. He ran both hands through his hair pushing it out of his face, then with a sigh, he punched a key to awaken the computer.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s peaky face filled the screen as it flickered to life over the secure link.

“Yes, what it is, Mycroft? I was busy working when your flunkeys grabbed me off a street where _anyone could have seen me_. Hard to maintain a low profile when MI6 goons keep picking you up.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yes about that _working_ business. What are you doing spending all your time hanging about in cafés and guest houses? You’re meant to be doing a job there, not lounging about on public tax money.”

Sherlock bristled at his brother’s presumptuous tone. “I’m not lounging about. I’ve interviewed half of bloody ex-pat Afghanistan it seems. I’ve found your man, Mycroft”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft’s gaze sharpened. “Report, please.”  

Sherlock sighed and proceeded to give Mycroft everything he’d uncovered.

“Well, good job little brother.” Mycroft almost looked pleased as he leaned back in his chair.  “Now that you’ve identified our target, you’re free to go. I can have my men do the surveillance work. It’s just mop-up from here.”

“I’d actually like to stay a few days more. I want to make sure. If for some reason he isn’t the target, we’ll just need to start over. I want to tail him a bit, get a picture of him meeting with his Afghan contact to make it certain.”

Mycroft frowned. “You just told me you were 90% certain this was our man. The leak for hundreds of thousands of missing pounds.”

“Well, that isn’t 100 % is it, Mycroft? I could be wrong. Just give me a little more time. I want to know I’ve tied all the loose ends before I go."

“I do have other agents in place you know, Sherlock.”

“Yes, and how many of _them_ are taking kickbacks? The country is rife with corruption and you know it.”

Sherlock, however, and it made his blood boil if he examined it too closely, remained in thrall to Mycroft. The interfering git had frozen Sherlock’s access to his trust fund just before he’d entered rehab, kicking and screaming. It was no longer necessary for his brother to keep playing guardian though, Sherlock had been clean for eighteen months. If this mission went well, as part of the deal, he’d have full access to his money again, and Mycroft’s nose out of his life.

“This desire to remain on the ground wouldn’t have anything to do with  . . .” Mycroft’s gaze flickered down to something on his desk, “a certain Scottish photographer, would it?” 

“You’ve watchers for the watcher, eh?” Sherlock spat.

“It seems I do, with good reason.”

“He isn’t a problem,” Sherlock ground out. “I need to blend in, spend time with some of the other Westerners here or I’ll be an aberration. I’d stick out.”

“Well, don’t spend too _much_ time, brother dear. There are certain . . . Western practices that won’t fly well with the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan.”

“Yes, Mycroft, I know. So, do I have the time?”

“Fine. I’ll give you two days. At midnight on Saturday, I’m pulling you out regardless of what you’ve found.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth. “Am I free to go?”

“You are.” Mycroft made to sign out and stopped himself. “Oh, and Sherlock, do be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Sherlock said before slamming the laptop closed, rising to reclaim his cap.

#@!

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lovely, haunting little tune that starts up in the background in WTF as Iain and Kim have breakfast and browse the marketplace. I had to share it here - ["Apparat" by K&F](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XPs4pa1KMk&list=PLAN2ONmBQ2oHRHZ2C6jMQzstW4i4SFBkd&index=16)


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences come due, and Sherlock is surprised where they lead him.

Damn. Sherlock’s target WOULD chose to spend the entirety of his day shut up in his office. Sherlock shifted himself on the bench outside the embassy, and turned a page of his newspaper. Dusk was quickly approaching. He contemplated getting up to make another ambling circuit around the street, when the man in question finally exited the building. Sherlock quickly grabbed a cab to tail him, disappointed to find him simply traveling straight to his flat. The man might be staying in, or he might be going out later. Sherlock couldn’t chance leaving his post now. With great regret he pulled out his phone and typed in a text to send John. 

_Sorry something came up. Rain check on dinner? – WSS_

_This isn’t a brush off is it?_ John’s answer came in just a few minutes.

_NO, God, no. Forced into a horrid embassy dinner. Couldn’t say no. Let you know when I’m free. – WSS_

_I’ve a hot package for you. Don’t keep me waiting 2 long._

Sherlock smiled, and slipped his phone away, settling in for a boring wait. When several hours passed, and Mr. Big Brit seemed to have turned in for the night, Sherlock admitted defeat for the day, and headed off. There was always tomorrow. Two in the morning seemed too late to bother someone, even John, so Sherlock simply made his way wearily back to his hotel room. He paused only long enough to remove his shoes and trousers before collapsing over the bed.

The next morning, Sherlock rose early, and after a perfunctory shower, fished out another outfit of typical tourist gear from his suitcase. He dressed quickly, grabbed a coffee and a roll downstairs, and with sunglasses and a new sun hat in place, headed off for another dull stint of surveillance. This time he’d be camping outside Mr. Big Brit’s home. Friday was Saturday in the Muslim world, and Sherlock decided to take John’s advice and stalk the man’s flat.

The time dragged by on snail’s feet as he waited. Sherlock’s only saving grace was the game he played deducing the lives of pedestrians that passed him on the street. A man who beat his wife hurried by. A woman with an American security company came out to walk her dog, oh, _his_ dog, a closeted trans man. Sherlock worked on sharpening his wits on a pair of chattering women concealed head to toe in blowsy blue fabric. Sisters visiting a relative, a married cousin. Where was their minder? There must be one. Yes, an older brother a few steps away. One of the women had been in love with the man her cousin married. Sherlock couldn't determine if the man had returned her affections, not without more data. Sherlock sighed as they moved out of sight.

He had almost given up the day up for a loss, just about to pack in this surveillance lark, when Mr. Big Brit finally emerged to hail a cab. Sherlock caught another one to follow, all the way to a café where Mr. Big Brit met Mr. Afghan drug lord for an early supper. Bingo.

Sherlock watched them from a Chinese restaurant across the street, taking pictures with a high powered lens. The two met for a jolly meal, and envelopes of money that were passed over the table for contractor jobs that would never see the light of day. The money would undoubtedly go to pad the pockets of the two fat cats currently chortling together over cups of espresso. It wasn’t just the embezzling either. If Sherlock’s deductions were right, the government official had his fingers in a number of illegal pies, under age prostitution, and drug trafficking to name just a few.

Sherlock could have crowed aloud. Mycroft’s minions would follow up on the paper trail, nailing the man to the wall. All he had to do was pass on the pictures. Sherlock hesitated. He could go to his contact right now, let Mycroft know he had the evidence and be on a private plane to London in a matter of hours. Instead, he flipped open his phone and scrolled to the texting window to message John. Again, John’s reply was swift.

_Finally free. Dinner? – WSS_

_Starving._

_Where? – WSS_

_Meet me at corner of Wazir Khan & Torabaz._

_Alright, give me an hour. Need to change. – WSS_

_OK Cinderella. ;)_

Sherlock pocketed his phone with a smile. He tossed a few notes on the table to cover the stir fried rice he’d picked at, hoisted his camera bag over his shoulder, and left the restaurant with a step that was decidedly jaunty.

Back at his hotel room, Sherlock powered up his laptop, plugged in his camera, and transferred all the incriminating shots of Mr. Big Brit onto the hard drive. He tried logging into a secure network to upload them, and received nothing but a whirling circle of doom informing him he didn’t have sufficient wifi access to complete the action. Bloody Afghanistan. Sherlock went to plan B, and copied the pictures to a memory stick instead, wiping them off the computer.

After a quick shave, and a change of clothes, Sherlock was ready. He patted his pockets making sure he had the memory stick secured, and left to meet John.

 

#@!

 

John was easy to spot on the street, his fair hair nearly shining in the setting sun. Sherlock felt something turn over inside him at the sight of the man. How quickly he’d grown to enjoy finding that lovely face in a crowd. John’s face grew even more attractive as he grinned at Sherlock’s approach.

“Hey, Sh . . . William. Glad you could make it.”

“Of course, John.” Sherlock couldn’t stop the smile that took over his face.  “So, pizza?” He glanced up at the battered sign on the building behind them. “Tandoori Pizza” it read in five different languages.

“Best pizza in Kabul,” John said. “Come on, I really am starving.”

John led them inside, and soon enough, they were biting into slices of pizza dripping goey ropes of cheese.

“So, interviews went well?” John asked dabbing at his mouth with a paper napkin.

“Yes, as well as could be expected.” Sherlock shrugged.  “To be honest, I think I’m done with that project. Taken it as far as I could.”

“Yeah, just as well.” John nodded. “You’ll never get a big break with a fluff piece.”

“True.”

“I’ve got a lead, though.” John leaned in.

“Hmm?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“Rumor has it some of the tribal leaders might be willing to give an interview sometime soon. With your Dari, you’d hardly need an interpreter. I could let you know if I hear of something specific being set up.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said mildly, trying not to let guilt twist his stomach. There wouldn’t be another project in Afghanistan for him to worry about. He patted his jacket pocket absently, making sure the flash drive remained secure. “Let me know if you hear something concrete, but enough shop talk, alright?  I’m a bit tired of work for the moment.”

“Oh, yeah, right, sorry.” The shorter man watched him with bright eyes as Sherlock took another bite of his pizza. He dropped his voice as he leaned in even closer. “What I’d really like to do is take a bite out of you, you gorgeous thing. God, you smell incredible. I’d jump your bones right now if I didn’t think I’d get dragged to prison for it.”

Sherlock swallowed deeply. “John, come back to my room.”

“I thought you’d never ask, my wee fishie,” John said. He dragged a pink tongue across his lower lip, and just like that, Sherlock was rock hard.

 

#@!

 

“GOD, Sherlock, FUCK, Sher, Shhhh . . .” John sputtered helplessly as Sherlock plowed into him, driving him into the mattress.

Sherlock groaned, a deep, rumbling noise, and pulled John closer, lifting his hips a bit to change his angle of penetration. He knew he’d hit the sweet spot when John switched from words to a series of staccato noises, his eyes closed as he arched up into Sherlock’s thrusts.

Sherlock’s orgasm roared over him like a tidal wave, bringing John along with him as he shook with the force of it. Sherlock kept himself braced on his forearms until he couldn’t any longer. He collapsed over John struggling to get his breath back as John panted under him.

“Christ.” John sighed.

“John?” Sherlock raised his head fractionally. “You can call me 'Sherlock' out of bed.”

“Ye wee bastard.” John reached up to slap weakly at his arse.

“Who’s wee?” Sherlock pumped his still slightly hard cock against John’s sensitive entrance. John cried out, huffing a laugh.

“Ach, no one in this bed,” John said, moving to drop kisses on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Wee fishie,” he added under his breath.

 

#@!

 

One lone street light filtered in through the patterned curtains in Sherlock’s room. It was late enough that even the street noise had dropped off to almost nothing. John snored quietly against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock turned his face to press a kiss to his pale hair. _Lovely man._ Sherlock sighed. He was leaving tomorrow. He’d have to tell John something, make up a story about having to return to London unexpectedly. They had each other’s mobile numbers already, and he could always ask for John’s email address.

Later, when Mr. Big Brit was arrested and put away, and the whole thing had blown over, he could tell John the truth. Who knows, John might decide to make a trip to Great Britian. He, himself, could even return to Kabul as a civilian if he wanted to. For John, he’d entertain the notion. This didn’t have to be the end if they didn’t want it to be. Sherlock convinced himself there were a host of different possibilities they might explore before allowing his eyes to drift shut and sleep to come.

 

#@!

 

A loud knocking jolted Sherlock to consciousness. His eyes popped open to register bright sunlight streaming through the curtains, and the sound of several people gathered outside his door. Two, no three, men stood in the corridor by the sound of the shuffling and low muttering in Pashto.

Someone knocked at the door again. “Mr. Sigerson, are you there?” a man called in thickly-accented English.

Damn. He should have trusted his instincts and gotten out the night before. Sherlock spared just a moment to curse his hubris before his brain slotted into gear, and he sat up. He’d locked the door with the internal chain the night before, but that wouldn’t keep out several determined men.

“John.” Sherlock nudged the man passed out next to him. A thin shaft of light illuminated a slice of his sweetly-slack face, tipping his long fair eyelashes in gold. John snuffled and made to roll deeper into the pillows.

“John.” Sherlock grasped his shoulder and shook him a bit more forcefully. He regretted needing to disturb him, but needs must.

“Wha, what . . .” John muttered finally rousing, blinking up at Sherlock.

“John, wake up,” he whispered. “We’re in trouble, and we need to get out of here. We’re going to have to go out the window.”

 “Mr. Sigerson, please open the door!”  The doorknob rattled as someone jiggled it.

John sat up, running a hand through his hair, struggling to full alertness. “Fuck,” he hissed, looking wild-eyed at Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t pretend the room was empty after their mumblings. “Hullo?” he called out in a voice gone rough with feigned sleep. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Sigerson, some men need to speak with you,” the hotel manager said through the door, his voice falsely polite.

“Just a moment, I’m not decent,” Sherlock called. “Let me get dressed.”

John grabbed his arm. “Go turn on the all the taps in the loo,” he hissed.

Sherlock jumped up, streaking across the room to do so. He returned to find John in his pants, carefully wedging the desk chair under the doorknob as another knock sounded. They grabbed clothes off the floor, passing each other their things as they dressed in record time. John made it to the window first. He threw it wide to look out. There was a balcony on the level below them but it was three meters down.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered.

 “It’s not that bad,” Sherlock whispered, joining him as he did up his shirt buttons. “We can hang over the edge, and stretch out before dropping. There’s a low probability of sustaining an injury.”

“And you’ve done this before to know?” 

“Trust me,” Sherlock said as the knocking grew more insistent behind them.

“Shit.” John sighed, running a hand over his face. “Look, do you have something to stick under the loo door, a book, something?” John waved his hand.  “Diversion - it’ll slow them down.”

“Oh, right.” Sherlock quickly dug a magazine from his case and moved to pull the loo door closed, wedging the magazine at the bottom to jam the door shut.

“MR. SIGERSON!” A rougher voice yelled through the door. The knocking had turned to pounding.

Sherlock looked over to see that John had already climbed out the window, slinging a leg over the sill. John shook his head before sliding fully over, hanging for a moment by his fingers before letting go. Sherlock heard the whump, and rushed over to see John sprawled on the balcony below.

“JOHN!” Sherlock hissed. John merely groaned.

Sherlock made sure he had phone, wallet and memory stick securely in his pockets before scrambling out the window as well. John managed to scuttle back out of the way as Sherlock dropped down beside him. The landing was jarring, but he bore it, none the worse for wear.

 “John, are you alright?” Sherlock helped him to his feet.

“Christ, I did something to my ankle,” John said. “God, and my knee, fuck.”

“Can you walk?”

John winced, gingerly shifting weight onto his hurt leg. “Yeah, it’s good enough.”

“Good.” Sherlock moved to try the balcony door. Thankfully, it was unlocked.

Sherlock could hear the men banging into the room above as he and John burst into the room below. An older Afghan couple lay in the bed of the new room. They’d obviously been asleep, just woken by the noise. The woman sat up and screamed.

“Sorry, sorry.” John muttered in Dari as he and Sherlock made for the door. Sherlock wrenched it open, and pulled John along with him out into the corridor. They moved as quickly as they could toward the back stairs, Sherlock leading, and John lurching after.  

Somehow, they clattered down to the lobby without meeting anyone, _so far so good,_ Sherlock thought, the sound of John’s harsh breathing a counterpoint to his own. They skittered out onto the tiles of the lobby only to spot a number of rugged Afghan men gathered outside the front door, smoking and looking generally thuggish on the pavement.

“Damn,” Sherlock muttered, “That’s not good.”

“Sherlock, what now?” John panted.

“This way.” Sherlock tugged John along with him to the front desk before they were spotted. 

Sherlock nearly sagged in relief when he saw Farid sat behind the desk reading an American comic book. “Farid, just the man I was looking for, I need your help.”

“Oh, Mr. Sigerson, sir, some men came looking for you.” The boy sat up, dropping his book. “Uncle took them upstairs.”

“Yes, they aren’t friends of mine, and I’d rather not talk to them if possible. Farid, is there a back door we can use?”

“Yes, sir!” Farid jumped to attention, showing Sherlock and John proudly through a door behind the counter. It took them through a corridor into the manager’s flat.

“FARID, what is this?” A heavy-set woman demanded in Dari, poking her head out from the flat’s kitchen. Her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise when she spotted her strange visitors.

“It’s alright, auntie, they’re friends.” Farid calmed her.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock stepped forward, speaking the same language. “Some bad men are after me and I need to leave. Please take this for my room,” he dug into his pocket to find a wad of Afghani notes that he thrust into her hand. 

“Farid,” he looked back at the boy. “I have a laptop and a camera in my room. If they aren’t damaged, you may have them. If they are damaged, I’ll make sure you get new ones.”

“Thank you, sir!” Farid grinned.

“Now, the back door?”

Farid led them quickly through a main sitting room and down another corridor to reach an outside exit.

“Thank you Farid, _Salaam aalaikum.”_

 _“Wa’alaikum salaam.”_ The boy answered. “Good-bye, sirs.”

“Good-bye, thank you!” John called, barreling after Sherlock through the door.

It was almost anticlimactic to slip down the back street, and make their way as quickly as John could hobble to find a taxi a few blocks away. Sherlock spat out John’s address to the driver as soon as he’d settled them both inside. He pulled out his phone to type a message as the cab moved into traffic.

“Sherlock, what the fuck? What was that?” John frowned. “What are we doing?”

Sherlock hit send, and looked up at John, slipping his phone away.

“I’m sorry, but _we_ aren’t doing anything. I’m dropping _you_ home, and then I’m leaving Kabul as quickly as possible.”

“What the hell? I’m coming with you then.” John looked so brave, Sherlock almost faltered.

“John, I wasn’t completely truthful with you. I’m no wee fishie. I’m more like a shark, and trouble tends to follow me. You’d do best to keep your distance from me.”

John surprised him by bursting into laughter. “Oh, Sherlock. Yer more like a wee dolphin, maybe a cantankerous eel if we got specific.”

“I’m serious.” Sherlock frowned deeply. “The life I lead, it’s dangerous. I can’t be slowed down with . . . entanglements.”

“Dangerous? Have you met me, luv? I was kidnapped by the AIG when they were still called that,” John crowed. “Danger is my middle name.”

“I thought you said it was Hamish.” Sherlock allowed the ghost of a smile to twist his lips.

“Semantics.” John waved a hand in the air. “Sherlock, what the hell WAS all that? And don’t tell me that was just for me sleeping over.”

“A project gone sour,” Sherlock said, “but I realize that I may have compromised your safety as well. We _have_ been seen together. It might not be safe for you to stay in Kabul either.”

“Then it’s settled.” John folded his arms stubbornly over his chest. “I’m coming with you, but I want some answers first.”

“Alright,” Sherlock relented, “but not here.” He leaned forward to speak to the driver, telling him they’d changed their minds, and gave him a new address.

The man rolled his eyes, clearly thinking _crazy foreigners_ , but he turned the wheel of the car to take them in a new direction. John fairly simmered beside Sherlock, holding his tongue, until the taxi trundled down a side street, stopping in front of a Western-style clothing shop. Sherlock paid the man as they climbed out.

“Okay now what?” John asked glancing back and forth, his forehead wrinkled in pleats.

“We wait a minute,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone to dash off another text. “How’s the leg?”

“Hurts like the devil.” John huffed.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, pocketing his phone again. He slung his arm around John, taking some of his weight as he led him, limping, toward a low wall. “I thought the distance of the drop to the balcony would be safe.”

“Well, I guess it is if you’re built like a bloody stork, and have legs that go on for days.” John released his grip on Sherlock to ease down onto the wall, wincing as he sat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t calculate for a shorter size. . .”

“Call me short, Sassenach, and I’m laying ye flat.” John growled, clenching his fists.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sherlock said lightly, perching on a spot beside him.

They sat for a moment in the bright sunlight, the quiet of the day settling over them after the unreality of the morning. A car alarm went off on a street somewhere nearby, and it startled them both.

“Right, so what . . .” John began.

He was interrupted by a sleek black car with tinted windows pulling up smoothly before them.  Sherlock stood, stepping forward as the passenger window lowered. An attractive woman sat within focused on the blackberry in her hands. She tapped for a moment before looking up to register him.

 “Good morning, Mr. Sigerson.”

“Good morning, Anthea.”

“We’re to take you to the drop-off point,” the woman said.

“Thank you.” Sherlock nodded.

“And your guest, sir?” She raised an eyebrow toward John.

“He’ll be coming with me.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sherlock helped John to the back of the car, watching as he clambered awkwardly onto the luxurious bench seat, mindful of his injuries. Sherlock slid in behind, taking a deep breath of the filtered air as he pulled the door closed, sealing them inside. John gaped about at the leather interior and the privacy panel separating them from the front as the car set off, nearly purring as it headed out of town.

 “Bloody hell, you really are with MI6." John let out a low whistle. “That or a crime syndicate."

“Adjunct operative with MI6,” Sherlock said, popping a panel in the car to extract a cold bottle of water that he handed to John. “This was a one-off mission. I did tell you when we first met.”

“Aye, you did.” John nodded taking the bottle to crack the top open. “I thought you were kidding.” He lifted the water to take a long swig.

“I know.” Sherlock frowned slightly pulling a bottle out for himself. “John, I didn’t mean to lie to you, but it was part of my cover. My real name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I do go by Sherlock, primarily.”

“I see.” John looked thoughtful. “So what DO you do when you aren’t working as a spy in Kabul?”

 By the time Sherlock had finished a long explanation of Mycroft, his brother who ran the British government, and occasionally Sherlock, and recounted the mission in Kabul, and his work as a consulting detective in London, the car had pulled up at a private airstrip where a small plane waited on them.

“John,” Sherlock began. “There’s a doctor here waiting to examine your leg. After that, we can board a plane ready to take us back to England. At that point, you are free to go anywhere you want in the world, free of charge. Agents will be available to pack up your flat and send your things to any address you specify.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” John had the strangest look on his face.

“I’d rather recruit you.” Sherlock dropped his gaze to his hands. “John, I could use a partner. I know it wouldn’t be the same as working in Afghanistan, but I do engage in some risky behaviour in my line of work. I could use back-up.”

“Are you asking me to move in with you, ye mad bastard?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes to John’s dark blue ones. Agents waited patiently for them outside. “Yes, I am.”

“Why didn’t you say so.” John pulled Sherlock into his arms and proceeded to snog the life out of him.

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock asked breathlessly when they came up for air.

“Damn right that’s a yes,” John growled by his ear.

“John, I must warn you. I play the violin. Sometimes I don’t speak for days. I feel potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Ach, come here ye numpty,” John drew him down for another toe-curling snog, and any worries Sherlock might have had scattered like leaves in the wind.

 

#@!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salaam aalaikum - means "Peace be unto you" in Dari.
> 
> Wa’alaikum salaam - means "And unto you, Peace."
> 
> Urban dictionary tells me Sassenach is "The Gaelic term for a Saxon. Survives in modern day Ireland and Scotland as a derogatory term for an English person." Yeah, we'll go with that.


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in London, Sherlock worries that it won't be enough for John, that _he_ won't be enough for John.

 

**One year later**

 

“John, GO LEFT!” Sherlock bellowed as he chased the suspect past the skips, his coat flapping behind him. Clever John was already veering off, running the other way down the alley to circle around the building.

Sherlock burst out on the main road, breathless only to find that John had tackled the man to the ground, pinning him to the pavement.  

“Excellent,” Sherlock panted.

“Piece o’cake.” John grinned up at him. “This wee beastie’s no’ goin’ anywhere.” The man thrashed in his grip, and John pushed down on his joints, making him cry out. “Aw, dry yer eyes, ye wanker,” John snarled.

Sherlock helped John attach ties to keep the vermin’s arms secured behind him as the lights of an approaching panda car painted their faces and the walls around them in splashes of red and blue.

Lestrade joined them shortly thereafter. “Is that him?”

“Yup, here’s your killer,” Sherlock sneered. “I think if you’ll turn out his pockets, you’ll have your final proof.”

“Good work, guys.” Lestrade slapped John on the back.

“No worries.” John grinned at Lestrade, then turned to flash a private smile at Sherlock, a smile that said _I’ll be seeing YOU in bed soon, my laddie._ Sherlock shivered in anticipation. When a case was on, he tended to put off bodily things, but when they were done, his urges came roaring back, demanding to be heard.

Later as they waited, giving statements, Sherlock glanced over, and spied John talking with Sally on the corner. “Ach, no he never! Well, you’re well shot of him, hen. There’s no reason to wear heels for a tosser like that.”

“Thanks, John . . .” Sergeant Donovan looked grateful as John put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

Ah, she’d broken up with her latest romantic interest. Sherlock drew a breath through his nose watching John’s profile as he whispered something to Sally and they both laughed. John looked up perhaps sensing Sherlock’s eyes on him. He murmured a good-bye to Sally, and jogged over to reach Sherlock’s side, his gaze raking over the policeman questioning him.

“Is that it? Are we free to go?” Sherlock asked the officer.

“Yes, sir, I think that’s it for now.” The young man looked up. “We’ll contact you two if we have any more questions.”

“Aye, there’s a good lad. Yer doing a fine job there, Stevens.” John winked at the man, Stevens his name appeared to be. “The force is lucky to have ye.” The officer blushed, and stammered his good-byes before moving on.

“John, must you flirt up EVERY member of New Scotland Yard?” Sherlock rounded on him.

“Ach, you love it, and you know it. It gets you all hot and bothered.” The look John sent him was pure cheek, but God help them, it was quite true.

Things had been so much easier with the police force since John had joined him as his partner, smoothing the way with his natural charm. Everyone took to John, and it had reduced the amount of time Sherlock needed to speak with idiots himself to an amazing degree.

“Dinner?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“Starving.” John grinned.

They fell into step naturally walking back to a busier road to hail a taxi. John had slotted so easily into his life, Sherlock felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to fall, for John to wake up one morning and be sick of his brooding, sorry self, and move on. So far this had failed to happen.

Their first few weeks together had been a blur. John had ended up on crutches as his sprained ankle healed properly. _Oh, how will I ever fill my time?_ John had purred, and they’d proceeded to have sex on every horizontal surface, and later a few vertical ones in 221b as John got better. Sherlock had looked over one evening at John reading a book by the fireplace, watching the firelight tint his already tanned skin, rosy and had struggled to identify the strange feeling buzzing under his breastbone. He was chagrined that it had taken him several minutes to realize that it was happiness.

“Alright there, luv?” John had asked, looking up to catch Sherlock staring, the laptop under his stilled fingers completely ignored.

“Yes, I was just thinking of ordering Chinese for dinner,” Sherlock blurted.

“Ooh, brilliant. Get some of those dumplings I like, the pork ones?” John had licked his lips, and Sherlock had pushed his computer aside to climb right into John’s lap. As he remembered, dinner hadn’t been ordered until much, much later.

Sherlock’s landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had fallen head over heels for John. Sometimes Sherlock grumbled, _I knew her first_ under his breath, but she’d simply pat him, and go about delivering John the papers, or another pot of tea with biscuits, or a dish of stew she’d made, _just until you’re back on your feet, dear, I'm not your housekeeper, you know._

John’s first meeting with Mycroft hadn’t been quite as pleasant. Sherlock had woken to find the bed empty beside him one morning, the sound of angry voices buzzing in the living room. He’d barely stopped long enough to snag his dressing gown, tying the belt to preserve some of his modesty as he pounded into the fray. Mycroft leaned on his damned umbrella, looming imperiously, while John stood, arms crossed, legs wide, looking furiously dangerous despite wearing nothing but boxers, and an ankle brace.

“What’s going on?” Sherlock demanded.

 “I caught this gowk scunner creeping about the flat on my way from the loo.” John snorted. “I nearly decked him before he told me he was yer brother.” He glanced over at Sherlock, his eyes making an appreciative scan down his barely-clad body despite his agitated state.

“Ah, good morning, brother dear.” Mycroft turned to face him. “Your new paramour and I were just getting acquainted.” A smarmy smile slid over his face as he raised his eyebrows _. Quite the spitfire isn’t he? I can see why you like him._

“Is that what you call it? Getting acquainted? The wanker just offered me money to SPY on you!” John spat out.

Sherlock relaxed once he realized no threat greater than his interfering older brother faced the flat. “Oh?” Sherlock moved to flop into his chair, stretching his bare legs out before him. “Really, Mycroft? How pedestrian. I’m not in primary school any longer.”

“Apologies,” Mycroft said, sounding in no way sincere.

“So, if you’re done sticking your big beak into my affairs, perhaps you’d do me the honor of pissing off?” Sherlock lifted his own eyebrow. _Yes, and he’s all mine. Back off._

“As lovely as this morning chat has been. I did stop by to give you something.” Mycroft reached into his jacket to remove an envelope that he held Sherlock's way. When Sherlock made no move to take it, Mycroft dropped it onto the table beside him. “I thought you might like to know we apprehended the man you were investigating. He was arraigned this morning, found guilty on all accounts of embezzlement, and trafficking. Congratulations, Sherlock. You were successful.”

Sherlock only reply was a derisive snort. Mycroft nodded. “Well, then, I think I’ll take my leave. Don’t worry, I can show myself out.”

Sherlock snorted again as if it bore repeating.

“Oh, and Mr. Watson, welcome to the family.” Mycroft extended his hand toward John. Reluctantly, John shook it. “I’m sure Mummy will enjoy meeting you when you make it down to Sussex.”

“Yeah, well, thanks. Do you think maybe you could knock next time you drop by?”

“Better yet, don’t come at all,” Sherlock added, leaping up to stand next to John, his arm snaking around his waist.

“Again, my apologies for disturbing you.” His insufferable brother smirked a last time, and then mercifully quit the flat.

As soon as the door downstairs closed, Sherlock darted over to pluck up the letter Mycroft had left behind. He plopped into his chair, tearing open the envelope to unfold the paper within.

“So, what’s that then?” John drew closer, peering over his shoulder as he scanned the page.

“A letter from the family barrister. Mycroft has released his claims to my portion of the trust fund, and I am now in complete control of it.” Sherlock was a bit surprised. He hadn’t actually expected Mycroft to go through with it.

“Bloody hell!” John sank down to sit on the arm rest. “You’re sodding rich!”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, half-crumpling the letter in his hand to peer up at John. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you.

“Buggering hell,” John said, laughing. “I guess I’m a kept man now, eh?”

They’d had some rows. Blistering, epic rows. John had been furious when an experiment of Sherlock’s had filled the flat with acrid black smoke, or when Sherlock had thrown out all of John’s old pants to replace them with a newer, more expensive variety. “Jesus, Sherlock, next time ASK FIRST, alright?” John would stomp off to the pub, and return hours later, walking slightly crooked, but calmer. They’d always climb into bed to apologize, and things would seem better in the morning.

John had grown a bit depressed once his ankle healed and he’d found himself at loose ends, merely hanging about the flat, waiting to follow Sherlock around for a case. Then he’d gotten some freelance photography jobs, and worked on putting a collection of some of his old war photographs together. He’d pitched the idea of a coffee-table book to a publisher, and Sherlock was pleased to note that John’s book would be out in a few weeks. Their entire flat was now decorated with framed copies of some of John’s best work. John’s favourite was a picture he’d snapped of Sherlock half nude at his flat in Kabul. Somehow the morning light falling in through the window had managed to make him look appealing, almost ethereal. That hung over their bed next to a picture of John that Sherlock had taken of him snoozing in the bath.

It was a good life, it was almost perfect in fact. Except for the fact that it was only a matter of time before it was all over. Any day now and John would find a buxom blonde who laughed at his jokes, and didn’t keep body parts in the crisper, or scratch at the violin at three in morning, or put their cold, bony feet on John’s infinitely warm calves in bed. Sherlock tried to brace himself.

“Hey, Sherlock, I meant to remind you. I’ll be in New York, next month, for a week, part of the book tour, remember? Also, there’s a journalist there I know from Kabul. Do you mind if I pop in and see her while I’m there? Drinks, catching up, that sort of thing.”

“Why should I mind?’ Sherlock’s head snapped up from his microscope at the kitchen table to find John lounging in the doorway. “Your life is your own to do with as you wish.” Sherlock could hardly disguise the ire coursing through his veins.

“Ach, luv.” John slipped behind him to wrap his arms tightly around his middle. “Dinnae fash yersel' over a wee lassie. She doesn’t have something very important to catch my attention.” John nuzzled into the side of Sherlock’s neck until he relented and tipped his head back, melting into John’s arms.

“Oh, and what would that be?”

“Your very fine cock,” John whispered against his ear, pulling Sherlock from his experiments, which granted weren’t very time sensitive, to lead him to bed. He made such sweet, tender love to him that night that Sherlock had to grant that John was at least passingly fond of him.

When the hated day arrived, Sherlock had wished John a safe trip, allowed John to kiss him good-bye, and stood at the window watching as the taxi pulled away to take him to Heathrow, and out of his life.

John had surprised him again, sending texts almost every hour he was awake, then calling on the morning of his third day gone. Sherlock looked up from his test tubes at the kitchen worktop when he heard John’s distinctive ringtone. He dropped his pipette to answer.

“What are ye wearing?” A lovely Scottish brogue rolled out over the airwaves.

“John. How’s the tour going?”

“Uggh. Good, but long, tedious. Americans can't say 'schedule,' and I’ve shaken so many hands, I think my arm might fall off.”

“Did you meet your friend?”

“I did actually. I’m spending the night at her flat.”

“Oh, I see . . .”

“She and her boyfriend had an extra room, and we were out so late they asked me to stay over.”

Oh. OH. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to the clock. It was 7 am. That made it 2 am in New York City.

“Can’t sleep?” Sherlock asked.

“No.” Sherlock could hear the sound of a bed creaking as John shifted. “I thought I’d drop right off, and then I heard the two next door going at it. Gave me a raging stiffie. I thought maybe you could think of something to  . . . sort me out.” John’s voice dipped into pure gravel.

“Erm.” Sherlock could feel a stirring of his own under his waistband. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

“So, what are you wearing?”

Sherlock looked down at his stained tee shirt, striped pyjama pants and open dressing gown.

“Black leather," he blurted. “Trousers so tight I don’t know how I got them on, no pants naturally, and that purple shirt you like so much.” At least the lack of pants was accurate.

John growled approvingly. “You know what I wish I was wearing?” he purred. “You. I’d like to have you here on my lap, sitting on my cock, rocking back and forth. Mmmm.”  John’s voice dissolved into a rumble.

“Are you touching yourself?” Sherlock headed for the bedroom.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes, lick your palm. Get it nice and wet. Imagine it’s me taking your fingers into my mouth. Sucking each one down.” 

Sherlock could hear the wet sounds of John complying. He peeled off his dressing gown, shucking his bottoms to climb over the double bed that had seemed achingly lonely the last few nights without John there.

“Now touch yourself,” Sherlock commanded.  “Wrap your hand around your cock, but don’t move yet. Just wait. It’s my hand holding you, and I’m leaning over you, watching.

“Mmmm.” John purred. “I can feel your eyes.”

“Alright, one slow pass up and down and stop.”

John sucked in a breath. “Okay, and you too.  I want you to touch yourself too.”

“Alright what do you want me to do?”

“Touch your nipples,” John panted. “Let your fingers just brush over them.”

Sherlock rucked up his tee shirt to comply, running his fingers lightly over each one. He couldn’t help the gasp that slipped through his lips.

“Okay, now rub harder, get the tips up, use your nails . . .”

Sherlock did as John ordered, running the pads of his fingertips over each sensitive nub, then swept back to catch them with the edge of his finger nails.

“Are they sticking up?”

“Yeeeeees, Jaaawn.” Sherlock spoke with more air than sound.

“Then pinch one, hard.”

Sherlock thrilled at the jolt of electricity that shot down to his groin. “Unnggg.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock. Can I stroke myself?” John gulped.

Sherlock had almost forgotten John’s hand wrapped around his hard cock.

“Yes, yes, John,” Sherlock gasped out.

“You too,” John growled. “Fuck your hand with your cock.”

Sherlock paused a moment to fumble a bottle of lube out of the nightstand. After a quick slicking over his palm, he complied, sliding his hand over his erection, balancing the phone between ear and shoulder. He could hear the soft sounds of John doing the same, jerking himself off across the Altantic.

“John, pump your hand, harder, faster. Do that twist at the top that you like.”

“Oh fuck, ye bonny thing, ye fuckin’ gorgeous wee  . . .” John growled out nonsense as the both of them chased their pleasure, hands pumping together, so far apart.

John was the first to break, a series of bitten off sounds telling Sherlock that he had exploded into his fist. The pleasure spiraled out over Sherlock and he came, groaning a bit louder than usual into the mobile for John’s benefit.

“Christ, Sherlock, I love you, I fucking love you.” John babbled.

It wasn’t something they generally said to each other. John was half-drunk, in a strange city. It was understandable he might get carried away.

“Me too, John. Do you think you can sleep now?” Sherlock asked.

“Like a baby.” John sighed. “Thank you. I miss you, you lovely man.”

“Miss you too. I’ll see you Friday?”

“Friday.” John echoed, making kissing noise into the phone, and bidding him a good night before hanging up.

They’d had a lovely reunion. Sherlock remembered his ankles up around his ears as John sank into him, and later, Sherlock taking John up against the wall, his legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. Sadly, John had come down with a cold after that, most likely caught on his flight, and it had been a few weeks since they’d gotten up to anything quite so athletic.

Sherlock’s eyes slid down to the shorter man walking beside him. John was nearly strutting, glowing with post-case adrenalin from landing their suspect. Sherlock couldn’t help the burst of pride that surged through his chest. Followed by a terrible pang of dismay. It was almost a year since he and John had moved in together. It was almost certain that John was about to grow restless for something new. It was how things had gone with Victor after all.

“So, I was thinking, Thai. Try that new place down the street?” John grinned up at him.

“Alright. Sooo, John, I was thinking too.” Sherlock swallowed. “. . .  thinking we might open up our relationship to see other people?”

“What?”

Sherlock glanced back to see that John had stopped dead in his tracks. “Date other people whilst maintaining a primary relationship.” Sherlock backtracked to where he’d left John on the pavement. “I was reading in some polyamorous forums online about open relationships. I thought you might like to try that.”

“Ah.” John reached up to run his hand over his mouth. “You thought I might like that?”

“Possibly. I thought it was something we might like to try . . . together.”

“God, Sherlock. This is kind of out of left field. I mean, I dunno. It seems a little weird. I’ll have to think about it. I mean if this is really important to you . . .” A look of hurt had washed over John’s face.

“No, no. If you don’t want to try it, that’s fine. I just thought you . . . I . . . that is we . . .” Sherlock was panicking now. Abort, abort, he tried desperately to STOP TALKING.

“Luv, what is it. Are you bored with me now?” John reached out to touch him, giving the edge of his coat sleeve a tug.

“NO.” Sherlock blurted out. “I thought you might be bored with me.”

“Ye daft bastard.” John shook his head. “What are you on about now?”

“Afghanistan,” Sherlock blurted out. “You were enjoying a life of danger and challenge with a variety of sex partners when I met you. I knew it would only be a matter of time before a life in London would pale in comparison.”

“You idiot. For a genius you can be so thick sometimes. Sherlock, I love you. I love our life together. How can ye not know this?”

“So you don’t miss war reporting in Kabul?”

“Sherlock, could I do this in Kabul?” John reached up to drag Sherlock down, burying short, sturdy fingers into his curls to pull him close enough to kiss. He crushed his lips to Sherlock’s, sweeping his tongue in to tangle and stroke with wet heat, stealing the very breath out of him.

Someone across the street whistled in appreciation. Sherlock felt a bit drunk, a bit wobbly on his feet as John finally released him.

“Steady on.” John kept a firm grip on his forearms. “Are you alright?

“Fine, fine, I’m fine.” Sherlock licked his tingling lips.

“Sherlock, do you love me?” John’s beautiful face lay open before him.

“Yes, yes, of course I do, John, always, always.”

“Yeah, me too, always.” John smiled shyly, looking away. He gathered his thoughts a moment before swinging back to fix Sherlock in a piercing gaze.

“Sherlock, will you marry me?”

“What?” It was Sherlock’s turn to freeze on the pavement.

“I don’t have a ring, I mean we don’t have to wear rings if we don’t want to. I just . . . I want to show the world. I want to call you my husband. Unless that’s not something you want . . .”

“Yes. Yes, rings, a wedding, yes.” Sherlock nodded so fast he made himself dizzy.

“Oh, yeah? Good, that’s good.” John looked pleased. A grin spread over his face as his whole chest puffed up. “That’s something else I couldn’t have in Kabul. I’ll be Goddamned if I don’t take the opportunity I have here to marry the man I love.”

Later in the taxi, John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his own, threading their fingers together. “Sherlock, you know it’s playing the odds, working in a war zone. It was only so long before I got my arse shot off staying in Afghanistan.”

“I know, John.”

“I’m not sad to have left it. I mean it was exciting for awhile, but I’m not sure I was living exactly in Kabul. It was more like just surviving.”

“Yes, that’s what it felt like for me too, just surviving. I had the drugs for awhile, and my work, but it never felt quite like living.” Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. “I’m glad it’s different now.”

“God, yes.” John lifted their joined hands to drop a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

He’d never actually said it before. Not all the words together. Not out loud. “I love you.”

“Ach, I love you too, ye daft bastard.” John voice held a world of warmth, and Sherlock felt himself uncoiling into it.

“So, December wedding? Something in the spring? Do we have to invite Mycroft?” Too many thoughts were already swirling through Sherlock’s head.

“Ah, luv, let’s decide all that later. Dinner first?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Dinner first.”

“And afterwards,” John leaned in to whisper by his ear, “I’m taking you home and taking you apart. It’s not every day a man gets to shag his new husband-to-be senseless.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Ach well, it’s a date, then, my wee fishie.” He affected his best Scottish burr.

John laughed and moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s thigh. “I don’t sound like that. Do I sound like that?”

Sherlock smiled as he relaxed back in his seat, perfectly content to watch London sliding by outside the windows as the man he loved leaned against him, and got a little fresh with him under the cover of his long coat.

 

#@!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gowk scunner - Scottish slang for "crazy nuisance"  
> Dinnae fash yersel - Scottish for "don't worry yourself about it"
> 
> ***
> 
> Thanks so much to all who left comments and kudos. It's been lovely to have so much support while writing this. This work is not beta'ed or Brit Picked, and I know so little about Afghanistan or how to speak Scottish. If I've made any glaring errors and someone knows better, do drop me a line. Again, thanks for the love, guys! It was a blast to bring this John Watson/Iain MacKelpie to life! :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dopplegangland](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588447) by [fiveainley_ohmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy)




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